`Both.’
Rebus smiled. `Guess where I am now?’
Jack couldn't, so Rebus told him the story.
`What's your angle?’ Jack asked.
`I don't know.’ Rebus thought about it. `She seems to need me. It's been a long time since anyone's felt like that.’
As he said the words, he feared they didn't tell the whole story. He remembered another argument with Rhona, her screaming that he'd exploited every relationship he'd ever had.
`Do you still want that drink?’ Jack was asking.
`I'm a long way from one.’
Rebus stubbed out his cigarette. `Sweet dreams, Jack.’
He was on his second cup of tea when she came back in, wearing the same clothes, her hair wet and hanging in ratstails.
`Better?’ he asked, making the thumbs-up sign. She nodded, smiling. `Do you want some tea?’
He pointed to the kettle. She nodded again, so he made her a cup. Then he suggested a trip to the snack machine. Their haul included crisps, nuts, chocolate, and a couple of cans of Coke. Another cup of tea finished off the tiny cartons of milk. Rebus lay along the sofa, shoes off, watching soundless television. Candice lay on the bed, fully-clothed, sliding the occasional crisp from its packet, flicking channels. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. He took this as a compliment.
He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the tshirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.
`That's not you any more,' he told her. `Goodnight, Candice.’
Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.
The Doors: `Wishful Sinful'…
A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He'd forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.
`For this relief, much thanks,' he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.
She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. `Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’
They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.
`For you,' she whispered, `a couple of sandwiches.’
`God bless the child.’
`For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They'll do till the shops open.’
Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.
`How am I getting home?’ he asked.
`I called you a cab.’
She checked her watch. `It'll be here in two minutes., 'What would I do without you?’
`It's a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’
She closed the window. `Now go on, get out of here.’
He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn't leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.
So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.
Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a 'mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn't know how many days it had been since he'd had a drink. He wasn't counting.
He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She'd be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and saw a beauty his cynicism couldn't touch. Someone in a bar recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He'd seen too much of love's obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.
Not that he'd voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.
`Define romance,' had been the challenge. And Rebus's response? He'd picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.
He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.
`She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she'd see you again.’
`So what's the plan?’
`Shopping – one quick swoop on The Gyle. After that, Fettes. Dr Colquhoun's coming in at noon for an hour. We'll see what we get.’
Rebus was at his window, looking down on a damp Arden Street. `Take care of her, Siobhan.’
`No problem.’
Rebus knew there'd be no problem, not with Siobhan. This was her first real action with the Crime Squad, she'd be doing her damnedest to make it a success. He was in the kitchen when the phone rang.
`Is that Inspector Rebus?’
`Who's speaking?’
A voice he didn't recognise.
`Inspector, my name is David Levy. We've never met. I apologise for calling you at home. I was given this number by Matthew Vanderhyde.’
Old man Vanderhyde: Rebus hadn't seen him in a while.
`Yes?’
`I must say, I was astonished when it transpired he knew you.’
The voice was tinged with a dry humour. `But by now nothing about Matthew should surprise me. I went to him because he knows Edinburgh.’
`Yes?’
Laughter on the line. `I'm sorry, Inspector. I can't blame you for being suspicious when I've made such a mess of the introductions. I am a historian by profession. I've been contacted by Solomon Mayerlink to see if I might offer assistance.’
Mayerlink… Rebus knew the name. Placed it: Mayerlink ran the Holocaust Investigation Bureau.
`And exactly what 'assistance' does Mr Mayerlink think I need?’
`Perhaps we could discuss it in person, Inspector. I'm staying in a hotel on Charlotte Square.’
`The Roxburghe?’
`Could we meet there? This morning, ideally.’
Rebus looked at his watch. `An hour?’
he suggested.
`Perfect. Goodbye, Inspector.’
Rebus called into the office, told them where he'd be.
5
